


Brotherhood

by rae1112



Series: Disunification [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War, Gen, Historical Hetalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 15:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4611984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rae1112/pseuds/rae1112
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As their leaders draw them closer to nuclear war, Russia and America ponder the meaning of the word “brother”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brotherhood

“It shall be the policy of this nation to regard any nuclear missile launched from Cuba against any nation in the Western Hemisphere as an attack by the Soviet Union on the United States, requiring a full retaliatory response upon the Soviet Union.” – President Kennedy, October 22, 1962

Canada was his brother.

Canada had grown up with him. They’d grown bigger together. They'd fought, because America had been selfish and angry, but they stopped, and they fought no longer. Canada had been a tool, or so he’d felt, for so long that sometimes he, and America too, forgot the affection and love that bound them together. But still Canada was his brother; his people were his brethren, too, and America loved them almost as much as those who called themselves ‘Americans’. The two would never be apart, save from extraordinary disaster. Like an alien invasion. Or a freak earthquake. 

Or a nuclear war.

America fidgeted in his chair, trying to take calming breaths, and his senator (his babysitter, for the past few months, who would not leave no matter how much America grew to resent him) looked over, trying to gauge if it was a sign of another panic attack. It wasn’t. The senator looked away, leaving America to his demons. 

_I should call him._ He took another breath. It was far steadier. _I need to call him._ He wondered if Canada was listening to Kennedy’s address as well. He hoped he was. Canada was many things, fantastic brother included. They’d been fighting, recently, but only one-on-one. Politically, Canada was on his side, and America thanked heaven every day for that. He really should call. 

_“As a necessary military precaution, I have reinforced our base at Guantanamo, evacuated today the dependents of our personnel there, and ordered additional military units to be on a standby alert basis.”_

“Are you alright, Alfred?” His senator asked, his attention drawn by America’s sudden quickening breaths.

“Call me by my name.” America said tightly. He clenched his fists, and wished Canada would call first.

“Of course…” Here, the senator paused, his eyes guarded and glassy all at once, “…America.”

______________

Russia enjoyed looking at maps, especially ones drawn and painted in Moscow. Historical or modern, he loved them, as they seemed to calm him in the winter when nothing and no one else was available. They calmed him less today, even though he’d spread them all over his tidy room in no particular order. They covered his bed in its entirety, covered his bland sheets and simple décor, covered every inch of his modest desk and wooden chair. He was staring at an old one now, crudely drawn, given to him by Belarus what seemed like (and what probably was) centuries ago. 

He was glad he was alone, for once, huddled in his small apartment facing Moscow’s main street. He’d been offered company, of course. The days of abuse by his leadership were long gone (not _long_ gone, they were _just_ gone, but it was a relief all the same). But he’d refused, in hopes that maps and his lone sunflower would do a better job of calming him. They did not.

_I am their brother._ Russia thought, but did not say, pulling his fingers away from the coastline he’d been tracing. _And this is what I’ve wrought._

Standing up to America no longer felt like victory. Challenging him brought no pleasure. He did not feel like a big man, or a brother, when he made threats at America and his allies. He certainly did not feel like a brother when America made them back. 

He wondered what would happen if he challenged his own leaders instead. In all of the nations’ history, not one had tried to stop their people from committing atrocity in their name. It had always been this way, as far back as Russia could remember—humans had fought their wars, and nations had watched them. 

“ _”Then what is the point of us?!”_ Belarus had shouted at him, when they were both very young, clawing at him desperately. _”How can you watch this come to pass, brother? They’ll kill you!_ ” 

She’d said something similar just the other day, and he’d forced himself to laugh, because he was her strong brother and he would not falter.

______________

Could England be called his brother?

_“Our other allies around the world have also been alerted.”_

He’d known him the longest, there was little doubt in that. He had vague memories, of darker skinned nations (not _nations_ , but to this day America did not learn what to call those that came before him) and strangely-dressed blondes, but England won among them all, and became his “brother”.

But was he? Could someone who visited you as a child every fifteen years for a few days be called brother? America saw a lot more of England now that their 'familial' status was severed. He liked England a lot more, too. America reminded himself of their new-found friendship, even today, when millions of other thoughts were running through his head at breakneck speed. He preferred to ponder their new beginning, rather than his potential end.

_I should call him_. America thought but did not say. His senator was long gone, finding that America’s fidgeting and heavy breathing did not make for a comforting presence. He was alone now, but that was probably worse than before. He’d hugged his knees to his chest, half-formed into a fetal position, on an arm chair that had been a gift from an old boss. He was scuffing its leather now, and he hoped that his former boss -- probably trapesing through hell now with the rest of the world’s deceased leaders -- could not somehow see him doing it.

He wonder if England was in his same position. He knew Canada was not—he’d finally heard from him, albeit secondhand from a messenger. Canada was with his bosses, listening to plans, working out how to avoid potential fallout. England probably wasn’t though. He was probably listening to Kennedy’s speech. Perhaps because they were brothers. Or perhaps because they used to be. 

_I should call him._ He wondered what it would be like to never see England again. To never watch him frown, or cry, or laugh. To never support him again, to never argue with him again, to never conspire with him again.

He wondered what it would be like to never see his own reflection again. To never see anyone’s reflection again. To never see again.

_”I call upon Chairman Khrushchev to halt and eliminate this clandestine, reckless, and provocative threat to world peace and to stable relations between our two nations. I call upon him further to abandon this course of world domination, and to join in an historic effort to end the perilous arms race and to transform the history of man.”_

He wondered what it would be like to never see Russia again. The thought should have brought him some sort of pleasure. It did not.

______________

A government worker had called an hour ago. Russia had needed to push through three maps to get to the phone before he hung up. 

“Mоя страна,” the worker said when Russia answered. His voice sounded shaky, so unlike a few weeks ago, when he and the rest of his party were yelling with strong Russian voices about the day they would finally show America what victory looked like, “Россия ... как деля? Пожалуйста, приходите на работу. Если мы видим вас, это было бы...” he paused, and Russia thought about his nerve, about how his government was seeking him out now, for comfort, of all things. “…утешительно. Пожалуйста.”

This is what he’d wrought. “Я должен быть один, товарищ,” he said, sounding cruel, without meaning to. But sometimes, you had to be cruel to your brothers. Or they would never learn to not destroy until it was too late. 

They stayed on the line for a while longer, the worker (though he was not a worker, by Russia’s standards, not really…a civil worker, perhaps, though even that was a gross overestimation of what it meant to be labeled a worker) breathing heavily, and Russia doing his best to follow suit. It was slightly comforting, after all. He did not trust himself to be in the presence of his people, people who were his brothers and sisters, who were falling down the path of self-destruction, leaving Russia no way to help and no room to stop them. Still, to hear at least one of them, whoever he was, brought him peace in a way his maps had failed to. 

The hour was winding down, now. The two had not spoken since Russia’s statement. Still, they breathed in unison. Russia didn’t know if he’d have the luxury to do so again. 

“Не бойтесь, мой брат,” the worker finally whispered, voice far shakier than before. He sounded close to tears.

“...Мое имя “России” для вас.” Russia replied, voice steely. He hung up. This is what his brothers had wrought. 

______________

It didn’t happen.

_“We are prepared to discuss new proposals for the removal of tensions on both sides, including the possibilities of a genuinely independent Cuba, free to determine its own destiny. We have no wish to war with the Soviet Union -- for we are a peaceful people who desire to live in peace with all other peoples.”_

America had cried into his people’s arms as soon as the Soviets pulled back. He hugged every single one he saw, for three hours, on the streets, in his workplace, and in the restaurant he’d gone to when he finally realized he hadn’t eaten for days. Some thought him a lunatic, but most were caught up in his euphoria. He was happy, deliriously so, high on the feeling of closeness and brotherhood his people brought. 

But still, the euphoria did not last forever, or even a day. He found himself trudging back to the office, shoulder’s heavy with the weight of the world. He felt drained. 

_We have no wish for war…_

Suddenly he was running, at breakneck speed, tears streaming down his face, and he felt flushed and lightheaded, like he would soon pass out if he didn’t get… _somewhere…_

_I haven’t called them,_ he thought desperately as he ran past security (and they knew better, now, better than to try and stop him, no longer forced protocol on him, because he was their nation and their brotherhood was his—) and through the hallowed halls of his White House. It was abandoned, now, which he was grateful for, because he couldn’t disguise his tears or his the ugly cries threatening to break through his pursed lips. _I need to call, I need to hear—_

He finally reached the room he was looking for. It was quaint, in a silent part of a non-descript corridor, and it housed a simple desk, chair, and telephone. America paid attention to nothing else, and nearly knocked over the antique chair in his haste to the telephone. He pulled on the receiver and dialed frantically, sobs now punctuating his every breath. He found he couldn’t control himself. He found he no longer cared. 

_Pick up, I need to hear—I need—I—_ He listened to the foreign sound of ringing on the other line, and tried not to wonder if what he was doing was considered treasonous, _I need to hear—I_

“…Ало?” a voice on the other line finally answered. America immediately recognized Russia’s child-like voice and slow drawl. He nearly gasped.

“R-Russia—!” America cried, almost manic, “Russia…thank you, thank god, _thank fucking--_ ”

And then he broke, the tears flowing freely down his ghostly face. He clutched at the phone like a lifeline, and sobbed like he hadn’t since he was a child. After a while, when the buzzing in his ears abated, he heard Russia’s answering sobs and prayers to God, and he grinned through his tears; his hands were shaking and his teeth were rattling, but he’d lived to hear his people sing for another day, and he would call Canada, he would call England, he would live—

He continued to clutch at his phone, listening to Russia’s dry sobs for hours. The emotions they felt couldn’t be further from loathing. In fact, they felt a lot like brotherhood.

**Author's Note:**

> Speech is from President Kennedy during the CMC, here's the full thing: http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/jfkcubanmissilecrisis.html
> 
> Translations:  
> Mоя страна - My country 
> 
> Россия ... как деля? Пожалуйста, приходите на работу. Если мы видим вас, это было бы...утешительно. Пожалуйста.  
> \- Russia, how are you? Please, come to work. If we see you, it would be comforting. Please. (using the formal form of 'you')
> 
> Я должен быть один, товарищ - I need to be alone, comrade. 
> 
> Не бойтесь, мой брат - Don't be scared, my brother. 
> 
> ...Мое имя “России” для вас - My name is 'Russia' to you.
> 
> Kind of a serious one, but I feel like a nation's life is part-time ridiculous, full time tragic.


End file.
